


An Open Wound

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chris Evans Lives in the MCU, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22432600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Chris comes home to find the Winter Soldier sitting in his living room. The prop Captain America shield upstairs isn't going to do him any good here. He's in way over his head.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Chris Evans (Actor)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16
Collections: Anonymous, X-Ship - The Crossover Relationship Exchange 2019





	An Open Wound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seinmit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/gifts).



It was dark when Chris got home. The darkness held onto as much of the summer heat as it could, his t-shirt sticking to his back. He was thinking about a shower and a snack, and then turning in. His mind was already on his tasks for tomorrow as he turned his key in the lock. The gym, a meeting with a director, lunch with his agent.

When he pushed open the front door, the overhead light in the foyer was motion activated, and came on when the door opened. The moment Chris stepped inside, he knew something was off. Shutting the door behind him, he turned to the home security alarm, and saw the green light.

The alarm system wasn't activated. There had been no familiar beeping as he opened the door, and without it the house rang eerily silent. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Sure, he might have simply forgotten to set the alarm, but something didn't _feel_ right about it. He had the sudden sensation that he wasn't alone.

A few handful of people had his alarm code, but no one that would drop by without shooting him a text. Maybe someone planned a surprise party for (four months before his birthday?) and he was going to lose it when they all jumped out from behind the couches and the decorative ferns that had been carefully placed by interior designers. 

Taking a deep breath, Chris pressed on into the house. "Hello?"

This was his house. His heart shouldn't have been pounding in his throat. His hands curled into fists, fingers squeezing together as if wishing they were holding onto something, like a baseball bat. He could probably swing a baseball bat pretty hard if he tried. Now, he'd have to settle for a right hook. He'd done boxing training for Captain America. He could defend himself against the average intruder.

He knew what he _should_ have done was go back outside and call the police. But what if it was nothing? It was probably nothing. He probably forgot to set the alarm, but that didn't ease the tenseness in his spine as he walked carefully through the dark house. This was why he didn't watch horror movies.

As Chris stepped into the living room, a lamp switched on in the far corner. A man sat in the armchair, his dark hair hanging limply over his shoulders, his face covered from the nose down with a black mask. It didn't hide his most distinctive feature: a silver metal hand peeking out from the cuff of his black coat.

Chris managed not to scream, or even yelp in surprise, but he took a very strong step backwards, and overcorrected, nearly falling over, before catching himself against the wall.

For a split second, he thought this was a stunt. They'd been trying to rope him into more Captain America movies since the real Steve Rogers had been defrosted. Scripts existed, but there was red tape in the licensing. Steve Rogers was no longer just a historical figure; he was living, breathing man who had the rights to his own likeness. It wasn't quite so easy anymore. Chris wasn't even sure he wanted to do more Captain America movies.

The studio had been pushing a Winter Soldier movie since that guy showed up about a year after Rogers was defrosted, but Chris thought it was pretty shitty to make a movie about a guy when he was still at large and potentially killing people, no matter how compelling his villainy. He had a feeling, based on nothing besides his own research and a single hand shake with the man, that Rogers would agree with him.

That second passed and Chris' entire body went numb as he came to the only reasonable conclusion. This was the Winter Soldier. This was the guy Captain America couldn't take down. And he was sitting in Chris' living room.

"I don't want any trouble," Chris said, holding up his hands. He tried for an easygoing smile, but it was strained. "If you leave now, I won't have to..." Do what? If he tried to call the police, the Soldier would crush his phone, and maybe him in the process. Cops wouldn't arrive fast enough anyway, the Soldier would be long gone by the time they did. He didn't have any weapons in the house, except for a decent replica of the Captain America shield upstairs, and other than using it as a blunt object, he couldn't do much more with it besides shielding himself.

The Soldier didn't say anything. He stared, unimpressed, with intense blue eyes. He didn't have any visible weapons on him. In fact, he was dressed in civilian clothes: jeans and a black hoodie. But Chris had seen footage of what that metal arm could do.

Well, not wanting trouble hadn't stirred the Soldier, and maybe that was a good thing, but they couldn't be in a stand-off all night. Hands still raised, but shaking slightly, Chris asked, "What do you want?"

That got the Soldier's attention. His gaze shot up to Chris' face, and in an instant, he was out of the chair and moving across the room. He shoved Chris against the wall and wrapped his hand around Chris' throat. It wasn't the metal hand, but his grip with the flesh hand was still tight.

"Steve."

The word was muffled behind the mask, but there was no mistaking it this close.

There was only one Steve he could be looking for. Chris tried to swallow, but the motion made him gag with the hand nearly cutting off his airways. He reached up with both hands, wrapping them around the Soldier's powerful forearm to try and get him to loosen his grip. It didn't work.

"I don't know," Chris croaked. "I don't know him. Or where he is."

The Soldier's eyes narrowed. "Steve."

Maybe it was the lack of oxygen, but Chris saw the situation with renewed clarity. The Soldier wasn't looking for Steve Rogers. He thought he'd already found him.

On a very base level, Chris did look like Steve; it was part of the reason he'd won the role of Captain America in the first place. They both had strong jaws, blue eyes, and even their smiles were similar. People had speculated that Chris was some relation to Steve, but it was pure coincidence. Chris just happened to be the right age and auditioning at the right time when they were making a trilogy of World War II films about the world's first superhero.

It had been like marketing magic when the real Steve Rogers was found in the ice about two months before the third film's initial release date. The movie got postponed due to this event, and also due aliens attacking New York City a couple weeks after. But Captain America mania was still on the rise when the film did eventually release, making it the biggest movie in the entire trilogy.

Chris met him once on the promo tour. If anyone thought he looked like Captain America, putting the two of them side-by-side had to ruin the illusion. Chris had never considered himself a small man, and he had worked hard to get the most Captain America-like physique for the movie (though a lot of that had faded out by the time the promotional tour rolled around), but Steve was a good three inches taller and every part of his was bursting with muscles. He had the broadest chest Chris had ever seen on a human being, and his biceps were the size of Chris' head. He had felt small when he shook Cap's hand.

No sane person would think Chris was Steve. Which said everything Chris needed to know about the state of the Soldier. If he wanted to keep breathing, he could play along.

"I can help," Chris said. "If you let me go."

The Soldier hesitated, then released his grip. He was still holding Chris by the throat, but not so tightly, and the small relief allowed Chris to _breathe_. Things started to come back into focus. The Soldier's face was so close to his own, the steel of his blue eyes staring, not only with a ferocious intensity, but something else. Wildness. Panic.

With the metal hand, the Soldier reached up and popped off his mask. He dropped it onto the floor, Chris heard the hard mask hitting the hardwoods, but he was staring in the face of the Soldier, and it was a face he recognized.

In the years between the first and second Captain America films, Chris narrated a documentary on Bucky Barnes. He had seen lots of grainy war footage and photographs in the process. He learned a lot and became familiar with Bucky as a person, from his friendship to Steve Rogers up until his death in 1944. 

Or at least everyone assumed he had died.

"Bucky? Bucky Barnes?"

The Soldier -- Bucky -- only reacted to the name by clenching his jaw. His hand slid from up Chris' throat and cupped his cheek. Chris was trembling. Maybe he should have been shaking this whole time, but he'd remained oddly calm. Shock, probably, if he'd considered it. But now that Bucky was so close, his hand warm and no longer a threat, Chris trembled, unsure of what was going to happen next.

Like it was the only word he knew, Bucky repeated, "Steve," and then kissed Chris soundly on the mouth.

Chris froze. His entire body locked up, but Bucky didn't seem to notice, the same way he didn't seem to notice that he wasn't actually interacting with the real Steve. Chris' mouth opened passively as it was mindfully plundered. Bucky's hand slid up the back of Chris' neck, fingers disturbing his hairline. 

Bucky pulled back only far enough to end the kiss, his breath heavy against Chris' cheek. His eyes were wide and wounded, like he wanted to say something heartfelt and meaningful, but instead grabbed Chris by the front of his shirt and pulled him toward the sofa.

"Wait," Chris started, but no other words came out and his feeble protest went unheeded. He grunted as his stomach slammed into the back of the couch. Between his own weight and the force of Bucky's shove, the sofa scooted forward about an inch with the unpleasant sound of wood dragging against wood.

Bucky grabbed Chris by the hips, his breathing loud, as he pressed himself against Chris' back. Chris shut his eyes as he felt Bucky's erection against his backside, prominent, even between both their layers of clothes. He had a very basic, sudden understanding of what was going to happen.

"You -- you don't have to do this," Chris said. His fingers dug into the couch cushion as to anchor himself. He tensed as Bucky's hands slid around to the front and unbuckled his belt. "We can come to some kind of..." The words died in his mouth. What did he think was going to happen? They could agree that Chris shouldn't be raped? It's not like Bucky wanted money or anything else Chris could offer him. The only thing he had at this moment was looking a little bit like Captain America, and it was the very thing that could destroy him.

It didn't matter anyway, as Bucky didn't reply, or even seem to listen. He yanked Chris jeans and underwear down around mid-thigh. Chris clamped his lower lip between his teeth. His warm hand smoothed over Chris' ass, as if surveying it. Deciding if it was worthy. The hand vanished, and for a moment, sweet relief spread this Chris' body.

Maybe it was about to be over. Maybe it took fondling his ass for Bucky to realize this wasn't Steve. Then, two spit-soaked fingers shoved unceremoniously past Chris' asscheeks and into his hole.

Chris cried out, doubling over, his face planting into a cushion. It muffled the next pathetic mewl he made. The fingers probed him thoroughly, stretching him open, pulling him apart from the inside out. It wasn't painful, he realized, once he got past the initial shock of it, but he was ripped open and exposed.

He breathed again when Bucky removed his fingers. He didn't fool himself this time, thinking it was over, but for a moment, he could breathe. If he could keep breathing, he could get through this. He tried not to think about how if he had called the cops, they might have showed up by now.

Bucky grabbed him, but not roughly. It seemed almost... playful? He flipped Chris around, and while his eyes were steely as ever, there wasn't any malice in them as he all but picked up Chris, tipping him over the back of the sofa.

Chris landed soft on his back, and while he tried to scramble up, his jeans tangled around his ankles, hindered by his sneakers. It was a second he didn't account for, and it cost him escape. Even temporary escape, as he had a feeling Bucky could outrun him as well as outfight him.

As effortlessly as Bucky had tossed Chris over the sofa, he hopped over the back and landed on top of Chris.

"Fuck," Chris muttered, his hands going up instictively to protect himself. Bucky was _heavy_ , nearly knocking the wind right out of Chris, who barely managed the swear.

Bucky didn't respond in words. He shifted his weight off of Chris, one leg slipping off the couch to steady himself as he maneuvered Chris' body around in a way that pleased him. He slid down to the end of the couch and wrapped his metal hand around Chris' calf. Carefully, he pulled off one of Chris' sneakers, then the other, tossing them both aside flippantly.

Chris opened his mouth, but no words came out. He wasn't going to be able to stop this. There wasn't any point in saying anything. 

With a still-blank expression, like stripping Chris was a mission, not foreplay, Bucky tugged off the tangled jeans, also throwing them on the floor. One of Chris' socks peeled off with his jeans, but the other stayed on his foot. It was unbalanced.

Bucky situated himself between Chris' legs. He licked his lower lip as he took in Chris' body, his gaze settling for a moment at his exposed genitals. "Steve," he mumbled, stroking two warm fingers up the length of Chris' cock.

"Aha!" Chris gasped, writhing at the contact. Jesus Christ, when had he gotten hard? When had his body responded to this with anything besides fear? He tried to scramble again, only to have his arm caught by Bucky's strong metal hand. That grip could crush him. He could have his skull smashed open as easily as Bucky was bruising his arm. He stared up at Bucky, waiting for what was going to happen next. 

Bucky pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to the inside of Chris' calf, then shimmied in closer between his legs. He folded Chris up, nearly in half, letting his legs drape over the strong shoulders. Bucky was still dressed, but Chris could feel the hard metal plating beneath the hoodie.

Chris looked up at the ceiling as he heard Bucky unzip his jeans. A far away part of his brain told him he should be screaming, protesting, trying to get away, but instead he lay there, waiting for the inevitable. It felt inevitable. He completely surrendered to it.

Get through it and it would be over soon.

This time, when Bucky entered him, Chris was ready for it, though nothing could have prepared him for the girth of Bucky's cock. It was solid and wider than his two fingers. Chis felt like his ass was gaping open, stretching wider with each centimeter Bucky pushed into him. Even when it seemed like he could open no further, but he did, feeling every inch of Bucky's cock inside of him, pushing up into his guts.

Chris made a sound he'd never made before. It sounded more like a wounded prey animal than a human, crying out for anything, anyone to come and stop what was happening. But there was no one for miles. No one to hear, no matter how loudly he screamed. He had done this to himself, building a house in a secluded area.

He looked up at Bucky, who didn't seem to pay him any mind, as if screaming was what people always did during sex. Maybe it was for him. Maybe he'd been on the other end of this. Did that mean he should know better or that he didn't know any different?

Tears streamed down Chris' face. He couldn't control it. The pain was too much, the violation was overwhelming, and yet, when he looked up at Bucky, he saw something that was almost like love. That far-away stare of mission was gone, and Bucky was lost in his own pleasure.

This wasn't an act of violence, and that made it worse.

Bucky wrapped his flesh hand around Chris' cock and stroked it, thumbing beneath the head. Chris grabbed onto Bucky's hot forearm, squeezing him as his back arched against his own will, his body fighting against him. Bucky took the motion of pleasure as a sign to fuck him harder. 

"Oh god," Chris moaned, and Bucky's cold hand grasped onto his own. Their fingers laced together, like real lovers making a connection, but when Chris dared to look into Bucky's eyes, he saw nothing for him. It was all for Steve.

Chris couldn't fight it. He had no power to fight, so he let it happen. All of the muscles in his body seemed to relax at once as he let himself go in favor of Bucky's raw power. For a few seconds, there was nothing else in the world except for Bucky pounding into him with no regard for the man who was actually in front of him. Familiar pressure built in his gut, pain and violation giving way to blind pleasure. Like Bucky, his body didn't ask if he wanted it or not, the insurmountable heat spreading throughout his nerves and he lost himself to it.

He moaned helplessly, wrecked and pathetic, squeezing Bucky's hand as he came, making a mess of his stomach and his t-shirt. His whole body rang, as though his entire being had been knocked upside the head. He'd never felt anything quite like it. Every second, he pulled another seam of himself, until soon he would be ripped in two.

Bucky murmured Steve's name and orgasmed, his body going rigid for a few seconds. His head lolled back as he continued to thrust into Chris a few more times, though lazily, before pulling finally pulling out. He flopped down onto Chris' chest, his hair tickling Chris' chin.

Chris stared up at the ceiling. His body felt satisfied, unable to tell the difference between good orgasms and shameful ones, and his mind was racing. If Bucky stayed, how long would it be before people started calling after him? Showing up at the house? What was he supposed to do? Was he being held hostage? Would he be able to explain?

The thoughts came to a halt as Bucky tweaked his nipple through his shirt, and a little shock ran through his body. Strangely, Chris was grateful to get out of his own head. 

"So what now?" Chris asked. He didn't sound like himself. He sounded far away and quiet. He wasn't really there.

"Do you have a bed?" It was strange to hear Bucky say something other than _Steve_. His voice was low and tired. Satiated. 

"Yes. There's a bed." 

He tilted his face up and nuzzled against Chris' neck. "Keep me warm."

It took Chris a few seconds to realize that Bucky wanted them to sleep together. He wanted Chris to go upstairs and share a bed with his -- the man who -- it wasn't right. It was wrong. But what was he supposed to say? No?

"You'll have to get off me," Chris said as gently as possible.

For the first time, Bucky smiled. It was the pulling of the corner of his mouth, but it was an unmistakable smirk. He brushed his mouth against Chris' cheek, the motion fond and maybe under other circumstances, sweet. He climbed off Chris and stretched his arms above his head. A joint in his right arm popped while his left arm made a series of soft mechanical noises. "Upstairs?"

Chris nodded. At this point, there was nothing else to do. He supposed fighting was still an option, but he was exhausted, mentally and physically. Bucky would surely crush him if he tried.

He had been crushed either way, but at least this way he was alive.

Chris sat up, his body stiff, and his ass was sore as he put his weight on it. He peeled off his shirt, dirty with come and sweat. "Go on up. It's at the end of the hall."

Bucky made a noise that sounded like an agreement. He moved slowly, his boots echoing against the hardwood floors with his heavy footfalls. He glanced over his shoulder at Chris.

"I'll be up in a minute," Chris said hoarsely, and that seemed to appease Bucky, who disappeared up the stairs.

Now that he was alone, Chris made a beeline for his pants. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and thought about who to call. Immediate disappointment set in. There wasn't anyone. The police would be no match for Bucky. He'd seen what the Winter Soldier could do to police officers, even unarmed. How did you call the Avengers?

Hands shaking, he turned off all the security protocols on his phone. He didn't have much time before Bucky came back looking for him. For the first time, he hoped the speculation that the government was listening to you through your phone was true. He held the phone up to his mouth.

"I need Captain America. _Only_ Captain America. This is Chris Evans. It's an emergency. It's Buc -- it's the Winter Soldier. He's at my home. Please. Come as soon as you can."

He abandoned the phone and went upstairs. Bucky was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, naked and blank-faced. The silver arm glinted in the light from behind him.

Chris swallowed and forced a smile. This was one more part to play. He could only hope someone had heard his message.

* * *

Chris didn't sleep. How could he, with Bucky's metal arm draped heavy over his chest? He could hardly breathe. Instead, he drifted, his mind swimming with everything that had happened over the evening. His brain felt hot and soupy, not quite processing all of it.

He didn't hear Captain America enter his house.

The room was beginning to fill with the blue light of morning when Cap -- Steve -- stepped into Chris' bedroom. He was larger than Chris even remembered, his bulky frame filling the entire door. He pressed a finger to his lips. Chris jerked his head in a nod.

Steve moved incredibly lightly and swiftly for a man of his size across the room and Chris saw the needle in his hand only a split second before he sank it into Bucky's neck, pressing the plunger with his thumb..

At the shot, Bucky turned onto his back, releasing Chris from his metal prison, and wide-eyed, looked up at Cap. "Steve," he murmured. There was a deep fondness in his tone that had been missing when he said the name to Chris, as if a part of him knew he'd been fucking an imposter.

"I'm here, Buck," Steve said, taking Bucky's flesh hand into his own. A strange, intense emotion crossed his face as Bucky's eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and his eyelids lowered.

"Is he--" Chris started, but Steve cut him off.

"It's a sedative. To knock him out long enough to get him to -- where we're going." Steve ran a finger over Bucky's forehead, brushing a lock of hair away from his face. It was a comfortable, intimate gesture. That motion seemed to inform a lot of Chris' night. "Did he hurt you?"

Chris opened his mouth, but no words came out. _He raped me_ was on the tip of his tongue, but a wash of shame or perhaps confusion washed over him. He had liked it, hadn't he? He'd given himself over to it, submitting to the Soldier's whim. Did he consent or comply?

"No," Chris settled on. "He didn't hurt me."

He would discover later that he had bruises around his throat, and more on his hips and thighs. He was obviously naked beneath the sheet. What was Steve thinking when he looked at Chris, obviously lying? 

"He thought I was you," Chris continued. "He kept calling me by your name."

A tightness pulled at the corners of Steve's mouth. It might have been a smile. "He must have seen your films."

"Must have," Chris echoed.

"I brought Sam -- Wilson -- with me. He's going to help me get Bucky out of here." Steve coughed awkwardly. "If you wanted to get dressed before I called him in."

"Oh. Right." Chris peeled back the sheet and walked over to his dresser. If Cap was watching him, he was subtle about it. Chris never felt eyes on him as he pulled on a pair of loose sweats and a t-shirt. 

When Chris turned and found Steve's attention fully on the knocked out Bucky. He looked like he was about to cry. It was Chris' turn for an awkward cough.

Steve looked up and gave a little nod. "Sam, come on up."

In an amount of time that gave Chris the distinct impression that the motherfucking _Falcon_ had been hanging around in his kitchen waiting to be called on, Sam Wilson stepped into the bedroom with a large carbon-fiber pod. It looked like something that was intended to house a corpse, but the large Stark Industries logo on the side and the fact that it hovered about four feet above the ground told him it did something else.

"Hey, man," Sam said, holding out a hand for Chris to shake. Chris did. "Big fan of your movies."

Unlike Steve, Sam was a regular person sized. Still big, but more in line with Chris' own size, just with the heavy looking Falcon armor strapped around his chest.

"Big fan of you saving the world all the time," Chris replied. It was bizarre how easy it was to drop right into a banter with a real life superhero when he was still in shock.

Sam grinned. "We're all playing to our strengths." He hit a button on his wristband and the lid of the pod folded back on itself, revealing a flat surface.

Chris knew better than most exactly how heavy Bucky Barnes was. Between the thick layers of dense muscle and the metal arm, he was a force to be reckoned with, and now he was dead weight. Cap picked him up delicately, like he was little more than a beloved rag doll, and placed him on the hovering case. The platform dropped about six inches and then compensated for the weight.

It took a few minutes to carefully arrange Bucky's limbs, his weight distribution being a problem. Steve and Sam talking quietly. Chris tried not to listen in, but he caught words here and there. They weren't taking him to Stark. They were taking him somewhere else, but Chris missed where and why. Maybe they never said why.

Once Bucky was properly situated, his heavy left arm draped over his chest to center him more, the lid went back over him. Sam gave Chris a casual tip of his proverbial hat, and guided the hover case back downstairs.

"I know I don't need to tell you not to take this to the press or any other authorities," Steve said, turning his attention back to Chris. "But is there someone you can talk to? A friend or a therapist?"

Chris nodded. "Yeah."

"Good. You don't have to go through this alone." Coming from anyone else that might have seemed cloying or performative, but coming from Captain America, it was genuine and sweet. "Would you mind if I came back in about a week? Talked with you about it?"

"You mean get my statement."

Steve smiled. "I mean talk about it."

"Oh. Yeah. That'd be.... good." This was one more dizzying event in the last ten hours. It was a good thing Steve wasn't staying now. Chris wasn't sure he could focus right now. At least not before a long shower. Chris cleared his throat. "Is, uh, is he going to be okay?"

"I hope so. HYDRA--" Steve stopped himself and took a breath. "He's been through a lot. His mind is mixed-up from repeated trauma. It doesn't excuse anything that happened here, but there is a reason for it. It's going to be a long road for him." He paused again, another wave of emotion crossing his face, as if he was actively trying to hold it together. "Thank you for being compassionate toward him, after everything."

They said their good-byes, and it wasn't until the jet in his backyard was gone that Chris realized he didn't have a way to get in contact with Steve. Maybe it was a we'll-call-you sort of thing, but he didn't have any doubt that Cap would be back for that conversation. He was the sort of guy who kept his promises.

Adrenaline gone, Chris' muscles were tired and sore. He could have collapsed right there on the floor and slept for days. Instead, he limped toward the shower and turned on the hot water. He tried to think about the calls he could need to make to cancel everything for the day and decided to text his assistant later and let him handle it.

There aren't any lies in a shower. Even in the empty house, he could hold himself together, but under the cover of steam, he let out a guttural sob. He sank to the cold tile floor and let go. Everything he'd been holding in for the last ten hours came out like an open wound.

When the emotion finally receded, Chris got up and washed himself, carefully cleaning every part of him that had been exposed and used. Clean, though by no means purified, he went back to bed to sleep it all off.


End file.
